


Rapture of Becoming

by DarkDreamsOfHannigram, theconsciousdarkness



Series: Hannibal Season 2: Nightmares and Reminiscences [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Violent Fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDreamsOfHannigram/pseuds/DarkDreamsOfHannigram, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theconsciousdarkness/pseuds/theconsciousdarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hannibal shows up in his cell at the Baltimore State Hospital, Will's fantasies of violence manifest themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapture of Becoming

Tried. He said “tried,” Will thought. Damn.

When Jack Crawford had come to tell him that Hannibal was still alive, and to get an explanation from Will, this was the only thing he could think about. The failure.

It was difficult to know if he regretted his decision to send Matthew Brown off to kill Lecter.

On one hand, Beverly Katz’s death sent him over the edge. Will had no doubt in his mind that Hannibal Lecter would kill anyone that Will had even partially convinced to listen to him. Including Alana. If he was being honest with himself, he wanted him dead less from what he’d done to Beverly, and more for what he might do to Alana. Therefore, he didn’t want to think about his motivations too deeply. What did it really matter?

But on the other hand, he had been played. His former friend had wanted nothing more than to sculpt him in his image, playing god all the while; push him down a path, force him to make a choice. Hannibal was still whispering in his ear. And this time, he’d listened.

While he was laying there thinking about (or trying to avoid thinking about) these things, he heard the familiar jangle of keys and shoe sounds that he associated with Chilton coming to pay him a visit. The pace was quicker than usual. He’s angry, Will thought.

Sighing heavily, he sat up.

“You’ve placed me in quite the awkward position, Mr. Graham,” said Chilton through nearly clenched teeth. Angry indeed.

“And what position is that, Frederick.”

The psychiatrist snorted. “I believe you know perfectly well what position, your little friend, and my former employee, tried to kill Dr. Lecter. I’ve just been listening to Jack Crawford ranting about it what seemed like hours. So tiresome. I have many better things to do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will replied, with practiced indifference.

“We’ll soon see about that. I’m reviewing all the surveillance tapes to see if there’s any connection between you two. And if there is, don’t doubt that I will find it.”

With that, he scowled deeply at Will, the way he did when he wasn’t fully in control of his facial expressions. It made him look much stupider, and less intimidating, than he probably intended.

Will lay back down. He hadn’t said if Matthew was alive or dead; what did it really matter?

. . . . .

After an amount of time he couldn’t measure, he was startled awake by the sound of the large, heavy barred doors closing shut, albeit quietly. Will froze; he hadn’t been awakened by anyone walking down the hallway, or the sound of keys in the door. Normally, that would wake him before anyone could enter his cell. He certainly didn’t sleep deeply here. Something was wrong.

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the most surprising sight of all. Hannibal Lecter was standing there, in the cell, alone. No Chilton, no guards. He had a deep bruise on his neck that wasn’t hidden by his clothes. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse and heavy:

“Hello, Will.”

While incarcerated, there were a number of things Will learned to do, or not to do, as the situation warranted it. One of those things was to temper his emotions - it was dangerous to reveal too much of one’s self while in such a vulnerable position. Nevertheless, it was impossible to stop the quiet gasp that slipped out, as Hannibal moved into his cell.

He stood, perhaps on purpose, in the path of the lone fluorescent bulb that hung outside his cell; Will watched as the light seemed to bend around his imposing frame, his face so dark from the backlighting that it was impossible to make out any of his features.

Not being able to see his eyes was a position that left Will at a great disadvantage, one he couldn’t afford the other man, so he pushed himself into a sitting position as nonchalantly as possible. Making a show of stretching, he swung his legs over his cot and stood - he was swift enough that the backlighting fell away before Hannibal could move. He lost the sinister backdrop of illumination, and Will was able to get a better look at him.

The depth of bruising surprised him; angry, vicious marks around his neck that had a sickening purple color to them. Despite his anger, he felt the burn of empathy as he saw the injuries, imaging the scenario that led up to his encounter with Brown.

Will cleared his throat, as he looked at Hannibal, gaze sliding up to briefly make eye contact.

“Fallen on bad times, have you?” He said quietly, inclining his head toward the other man.

“To say I have ‘fallen on bad times’ implies misfortune due to poor luck or circumstances within my control, Will. I do not believe either fits with what has occurred to me. I was the victim of a vicious attack. I could easily have died were it not for the timely intervention of Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom. I am in their debt. This is what I have come here today to discuss with you.”

Hannibal stepped minutely to the side, putting the light back into Will's eyes. A subtle game, to be sure, but still an act of dominance. Will sitting, Hannibal standing; Will being put in the position of the guilty party, Hannibal the one who was wronged. A pissing contest after all.  It was all the same; and it represented him taking back control where Will had tried to assert it.

Yet Hannibal didn't appear to be afraid. In fact, he seemed at ease, standing there so mysteriously in Will's cell. The only conclusion that could be drawn was that he was pleased Will had sent someone after him, whatever the outcome.

And him coming here? Unaccompanied and unguarded? It was both a reminder that he still exerted influence over Will and also that he had tried - and failed - to escape it. Hannibal moved to block the light from his eyes just long enough to allow Will to see the smile playing subtly at the corner of his lips.

The hint of a smile enraged Will, though he suppressed the emotion with every shred of strength he possessed. He weighed his options carefully - clearly Hannibal was attempting to maintain some semblance of control. Will stood and faced the other man, trying to disarm him by not making any move at all.

He took another long look at him, eyes falling on his neck again before he caught a glimpse of something across his arms. Shirt cuffs the perfect length, as always, only a hint was visible of two very sinister looking scars running along Hannibal’s wrists.

It was impossible for those wounds to be self-inflicted - immediately his mind flooded with images of possible scenarios, each one more gruesome than the previous. Will’s eye widened minutely before he regained his composure.

“Jack and Alana? That’s why you’re here?” He tried to cover his slight misstep with the question, gazing up at Hannibal.

Even though Will had only glanced at the scars now marring his wrists, Hannibal picked up on the slight distaste that had ever-so-briefly flickered across Will’s face.

“No, Will, I’m here because of you. Sending someone else to be your hands, when you likely wished to have used your own, was at first surprising to me. But upon further reflection, I understand.”

He took a few steps closer to Will, who straightened up in response to the invasion of personal space. It was difficult to tell if it was a declaration that Hannibal wasn’t afraid of the man seated now less than three feet in front of him, or if it was instead a provocation.

“I had asked you once if it would feel good to kill me. If we are being honest with one another, putting a bullet in my head would be just as impersonal as using a proxy to cut me open, and drain the life from me. Yet that is precisely what you did. If we are being honest.”

He paused once again, before adding, “It is clear to me that you do not wish to get your hands dirty, in the most literal sense.”

“If you’re here, because of me, why am I _in here_ at all? Surely that couldn’t be your fault?” He spat the words at Hannibal, before turning away, and collapsing against the bars of his cell. It was impossible for Will to hide his disgust this time; he brushed past Hannibal, face a mixture of disbelief and barely-contained anger. Reaching out, he grasped the cell door, shaking it violently.

“By whose authority are you even here? You can just come and go as you please?” Will glared sullenly at the floor. “It would have felt good to kill you, you know, with my own hands,” he emphasized the words, chewing his bottom lip out of both nervousness and loathing. “You saw fit that I had to do it by proxy, though, didn’t you. You made sure it was impersonal, seeing as I’m in here and you’re,” he swung his hands through the bars, “out there.”

Will turned, glaring, gaze set directly on Hannibal.

“Get out.”

Hannibal disregarded Will’s anger which was beginning to bubble to the surface. It was evident that Will wouldn’t cooperate with any of the sort of discussions of the kind they used to have. Therefore, his only other option was to push Will into making disclosures. He circled around, placing himself with the bars to his back. A subtle gesture of trust.

“You being in here does not serve me. I miss our conversations.”

Before it became necessary to throw suspicion off of himself, and onto Will instead, he’d been so close to seeing what lived beneath the veneers of a law enforcement career, the profiler, the boy who’d been brought up with no sense of permanence. This was Hannibal’s gift to Will: violence was something he could find stability in.

“The only authority I respect is my own. I have no intention of leaving without discovering if you intend to try to kill me again, Will.”

Whether or not he would make another attempt on his life somehow wasn’t the information he came for. How thoroughly had Will had allowed himself to unleash the urges that Hannibal had tried so much to cultivate?

“Me, being in here, does not serve you?” Will’s eyes widened in disbelief as he stared up at Hannibal. He laughed, a bitter, exasperated little noise as his voice cracked. “And you think it serves me? You think it serves me to be in here for crimes I most certainly did not commit?”

The small amount of composure he had been able to maintain fell away; he approached Hannibal swiftly, cornering him against the bars of his cell and sneered.

“How dare you even suggest me being in here doesn’t serve you? It serves you perfectly - you have exactly what you wanted, someone to take the fall for you.”

Will heard a small intake of breath from the man before him and before he could process his own intentions, he struck Hannibal, hard, across the face. There was a sick and satisfying thump as the back of his head hit the cell bars. He stumbled slightly, tipping backward against the metal, as his hand automatically went to his jaw.

The rage Will felt at the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of Hannibal’s lips left him shaking with emotion so raw he felt his vision darken around the edges.

“How dare you,” Will hissed.

After a moment, he shook off the minor blow to his head. When Hannibal moved his hand away from his mouth, there was blood. He looked at it curiously, dispassionately, as if it wasn't his.

"You want to know why it isn't in my interests to have you in here? This is why. Your incarceration affords me so very little opportunities to see what you are capable of. And I see that you are not hesitant to try to harm me yourself. I would consider this progress, Will."

He took a step forward, confidently, unafraid. The lack of fear in his eyes should have been terrifying to Will, but instead it only made him angrier. He remembered pulling the gun on him in Garrett Jacob Hobbs' house; he didn't seem afraid then either.

He suddenly was overcome with the need to break through that facade, to crack that veneer of serenity.

It was rage that caused Will to lunge forward – rage over the placid, benign exterior that Hannibal wore as he stared down at him, his face a perfect mask of composure. Will wanted for nothing more than to break it, to tear it apart and see what was underneath.

Trying to muster his entire mental catalog of officer training, he ducked first, anticipating Hannibal might assume he was going for his chest or his face. There was the quiet rush of air as a strong arm passed within inches of his head, the crisply pressed sleeve of Hannibal’s dress shirt brushing the curls of his hair.

Will grunted as he dropped down, waiting for exactly the right moment. As Hannibal recovered from his missed attempt, Will stood quickly, taking the opportunity with the other man slightly off balance to hook his foot around Hannibal’s knee. He pulled his leg forward sharply, even as he put his hands out, shoving them against the other man’s abdomen – two forces, in two different directions.

It happened in slow motion, the whole of his perception seeming to tick by, one second at a time. Will recovered his own footing, stepping away while Hannibal fell backward, off balance, one arm twisting up as if he expected to grab on to something to stop his descent. There was a slight exhalation of breath from the other man - Will heard it so clearly in the silent cell, before he crumpled on his back, head connecting with the dirty, broken stone floor.

With difficulty, he pulled himself out of his trance, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. Dropping down on top of Hannibal, Will pulled his arms to his sides, limp and pliant under his trembling grasp. He straddled him, knees protesting the uneven and cracked cement. Out of fear he’d attempt to attack, in retaliation, Will pressed his legs against his sides, pinning his arms tightly.

It was so strange, Will thought lethargically, to see Hannibal laid out in such a way – his normally impeccable hair, all askew and unkempt; his shirt covered with dust and grime. He wondered, horrified at the thought, if his dress shoes had been scuffed and he turned to see. Hannibal groaned quietly, pained, and Will spun his head back to look at him.

“H-Hannibal?” Will shook fiercely, a strange mix of rage and some other curious feeling that was beginning to take hold, as he stared down at the other man, tentatively touching the side of his face.

Hannibal’s brow furrowed, lips parting in another soft groan; he shifted weakly, head rolling to the side. Will had the sudden vision of blood matted in his hair, oozing out from under his head and staining the concrete. He quickly touched the back of Hannibal’s skull, both relieved and irritated to find nothing there.

It would be so easy to kill him now – all he had to do was lift his head and bring it back down on the stone floor. Once. Maybe twice. Will could hear the sound it would make so easily; a sharp crack, then dull thump, and Hannibal’s life would be spilling over his hands, through his fingers, and weaving a peculiar little path to the filthy drain in the corner.

It was no good, Will decided; it was a death without passion. Despite his rage, his near blind hatred, there was so much hunger for the man beneath him. Whatever was to take place, Will wanted Hannibal aware of what was happening. He owed him that much.

Carefully, he slipped his hand around Hannibal’s neck, fingers sliding up along his jaw to turn his head back. Will leant down, hovering close to Hannibal’s face, and pressed a chaste kiss to the side of his mouth. There was a quiet, distressed exhalation of breath and Will kissed him again, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and biting lightly. He pulled back slightly after a moment, before pressing his tongue gently inside, hands coming to rest in the tangled strands of Hannibal’s hair.

Disjointed images filled Hannibal's mind, only a small sliver of consciousness remaining. Mostly shadows, sensations, thinking without words.

There was a distant presence of fear; but Hannibal was always able to keep that at a distance, even as he acknowledged its presence. Here in this place, which was like being underwater without drowning, it was but a shadow on the surface.

There was pressure, and it brought with it arousal. Weight on his body, sensation at his lips. Where most would instinctively rebel against the unfamiliarity of all of this, undetermined, for Hannibal it conjured feelings of both detached curiosity and pleasure.

It called him back towards awareness, if only a little. The closer he reached for it, the more he felt pain. So he receded, advanced, in waves, which he eventually realized were timed with the slight and automatic raising and lowering of his hips from the hard floor.

Words to put to these things came back last of all. Will. Kiss. Mouth. Heat. Throbbing. Head. Cock.

He opened his mouth to groan, but it was invaded with a hot, insistent tongue instead. Hands tried to rise to touch the waist of the man on top of him, but fell back to the ground when he felt his trousers being opened.

Would he been able to gather his faculties to resist, he would not have stopped it anyway. His teeth grazed gently the mouth pressed to his, inviting more.

Will relished the thought that he had the man all to himself, that he could take his time, and do as he pleased. The matter of Hannibal's skull bothered him, however, resting on the pebbled stone floor - it made him wince in empathy, despite his anger. He had not been given a pillow for his cot, so with great reluctance he broke the kiss, and hastily pulled off his prison-issued shirt, folding it. Carefully lifting the other man, he slid it under his head, before laying him out again.

The movement must have caused pain - Hannibal's normally tanned skin looked pale, even in the dimly lit cell, and his breathing labored as a prickling of sweat appeared on his brow. Will undid the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt with shaky fingers, pushing his collar open and staring at the dark bruising around his neck. There was the distant thought that the other man must be very warm, so he continued on, until he pushed the garment off his shoulders and rested his palms against Hannibal’s broad chest.

The lack of symmetry in the bruising was disturbing on some fundamental level. It made him angry that it was done so carelessly; he felt a twinge of regret he couldn’t have been the one to do it correctly in the first place. There was an overwhelming need to remedy it, so he laid a hand against Hannibal’s forehead, rolling his head to the side, and pressed his lips to his neck. He bit, sharp teeth over tender, unguarded flesh, until Hannibal whimpered. The noise was unsettling, coming out of the normally composed man. Will stroked the side of his face, thumb rubbing against his jaw, while he bit down again, feeling the skin grow warm beneath his lips.

Licking his way back into Hannibal’s mouth, he kissed him deeply, but gently, to silence the pained noises as new bruises began blossoming next to old ones. He slid a hand between their bodies, rubbing it across his sweat-slicked torso before turning around, straddling him in the opposite direction.

Trousers already partially undone, Will finished the task, shoving them down enough to free Hannibal’s cock. It lay soft between his thighs, so he wrapped his hand around the base, stroking slowly with unhurried movements. He tongued at the head, softly teasing back the foreskin with his lips until he heard Hannibal moaning very quietly.

“Shh,” Will whispered, kneading his hip. He smiled against the other man’s flesh, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his inner thigh.

Hannibal felt himself getting aroused at Will’s careful treatment, contrasting so forcefully with the previous act of knocking him out. It was jarring, and it began to bring him out of his fog. He found himself rocking into Will’s touch, wanting him to use more pressure, more speed. So unusual, being in a position where getting what he wanted was denied.

As consciousness returned degree by agonizing degree, Hannibal found himself able to speak the words that had begun to form in his head.

“I anticipated you trying to harm me when I came here today, but this is a much stronger show of dominance than I could have predicted. You’ve come so far.” Even after being hurt, and through the thickness that remained in his voice from his abused throat, pride and admiration came through clear as day.

As if he’d been perturbed by this declaration, he could feel Will digging fingernails into the skin and muscle of his thigh, but still tonguing so gently at his now fully hard cock. Will began forcing him as deep into his throat as he could, and Hannibal realized he was trying to get his length as slick as possible. Inmates were not provided proper lubricant in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, unfortunately. He realized Will intended to ride him, here on the floor of his cell.

“Will. How long have you thought about this? Was the attempt on my life just a cry for attention after all? Or is there something else that is buried under your desire?”

He could sense Will taking off his thin prison sweatpants, still sucking him, now more insistently, desperately. Once finished, he could feel Will’s own hardness press against his thigh. But Hannibal could sense an anger was building along with his growing arousal.

When Will finally came up for air, he growled two words, low and menacing: “Shut. Up.”

Hannibal smirked, a pleased look on his face at Will’s growing rage. His passion, especially in the form of his thinly masked fury, was so intensely beautiful that Hannibal found himself overcome with lust at the thought of Will being driven to such lengths.

Growling, sensing the undercurrent of his thoughts, Will turned around, facing Hannibal, and glared down at him.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Will hissed. He smiled and raised his hands slightly, as if to suggest he had no plans to disobey. Will sat back on his heels for a moment, feeling the hard length of Hannibal’s flesh nudging against his ass. Rocking back, he wrapped his hand around his own cock, fisting himself harshly, quickly, without any finesse.

“Slow down, Will. Why waste such an opportunity when you’re finally fulfilling your innermost desires?”

Will cried out in rage, hand lashing out and connecting with Hannibal’s cheek. He watched as the other man’s swung around, rolling to the side. The noise of the impact echoed off and the damp cell walls and seemed to spur Will to action. He lifted up, grabbing Hannibal’s cock, and positioned himself.  He let the head, still dripping with his own saliva, tease at his opening for a moment. Rolling his hips very slightly, he sank down, so slowly, Hannibal’s length opening him up, inch by inch.

There was a distressed groan from the man pinned beneath him - part pleasure, part pain as Will sank down, impaling himself completely. Panting, moaning, he stayed motionless for a moment, too overcome to move yet. Reaching down, he touched Hannibal’s cheek lightly, the skin flushed where he’d been struck.

It was difficult for Hannibal to move very much, but he could rock upwards slightly. At first Will thought he was trying and failing to throw him off, but he soon realized he was attempting to entice Will to take control, and even to enjoy himself.

“How long have you wanted this, Will? From the beginning? Or only after you believed I had framed you for my crimes? It would reveal much about your character if were the latter.”

Will opened his mouth to once again tell him to be quiet, but quickly realized there was no more purpose to talking. Only to acting. And Hannibal saw he’d finally pushed him past his breaking point.

He looked straight into Will’s eyes, as his pupils went wide and dark, a perfect match for his bared teeth.

The hand on Hannibal’s cheek moved gradually, imperceptibly, to his neck. It seemed involuntary; Will was evidently unable to decide whether he wanted to fuck Hannibal or strangle him, and his body chose both options for him.

The more pressure he put on his throat, the less Hannibal was able to move. At first, he appeared to enjoy it, getting to see this side of Will finally emerging, and with such ferocity. But soon, the pressure at his throat became painful, and he made attempts to move his hands to try to stop Will; but it was too late, and lack of oxygen made his movements sluggish and weak. The less able Hannibal was to resist, the more Will felt his excitement build, and he began rocking his hips, moving Hannibal’s cock within him. It seemed even harder than it had been when he first impaled himself on it. Despite Hannibal’s growing pain and panic, his body also responded without his consent.

When he saw that Hannibal’s face had taken on a darker hue, and could feel he’d stopped even attempting to move, Will eased up on his neck slightly, allowing him a lungful of air, before squeezing again, harder still. He was coming down harder each time, and found the right angle to press deeply against his prostate. He found that he liked being in control. It felt…expedient, efficient. No waiting for the other person to read cues, no need for him to do the same.

He fell into this rhythm; allowing Hannibal to breathe, then forcing his hand down harder against his windpipe and carotid artery each time, livid bruises forming beneath his fingers; thrusting downwards, rising up. He found a way to maintain the contact with both Hannibal’s throat and the needed friction inside of him while leaning back, freeing his other hand from needing to brace his weight on the floor. He wrapped it around his cock, and began to forget to let Hannibal get the occasional gasp of air.

The measure of fucking himself was meditative; he didn’t have to think, to rationalize his actions, he had only to feel. The anger, the terrible blind rage was transformed as he sank back down on Hannibal’s cock - he had only to let the feeling wash over him and at once he was free from the necessity of responsibility.

He ground his hips, smiling to himself when he felt how perfectly their bodies fit together like this. Shifting forward, he let the thick, blunt head of Hannibal’s cock drag across his prostate again before slamming back down. The hard length was so deep inside him as he sat back that he couldn’t stop the agonized groan that spilled from between his clenched teeth – he was stretched, filled, _consumed._

His gaze, distant and detached, fell across Hannibal features when he felt a weak intake of breath; Will came back to himself as he stared down at the other man, finally easing up on his neck. Stilling his movements, decreasing the frantic grip on his own cock, he rubbed his fingers against the discolored flesh of Hannibal’s neck. There was the acknowledgement that he had done it – it was rage manifested by his own hands.

The realization dawned, as he studied his former lover, so pliant beneath his hands, that he wanted to mark him – forever. It was his final declaration to Hannibal; he held no power over him, he wasn’t in control.

The image of how it would happen was clear - he saw it, in his mind’s eye: his cock, engorged, denied release for so long, surging in his hand as he bore down on the other man’s hips. Head flung forward, beads of sweat dropping from his face, falling across Hannibal’s chest as he rode him. His release would build, uncoiling in his belly like the wrath that had spurred him on before. His cum would splatter across Hannibal’s face, his chin, droplets scattering over tightly closed eyes, and falling from his lashes.

Will wanted him awake when he claimed him, wanted him conscious of what was happening. That too was his gift to him - awareness of his own defeat. He slapped him hard across the face to rouse him, before rubbing his thumb softly, almost apologetically, across the bruised cheekbone.

“Hannibal. Wake up.”

At once, everything seemed very far away, and yet also very distinct. Will could hear himself screaming Hannibal’s name over and over, an unbroken echo, each time overlapping the last. It _was_ his voice, yet it also seemed as if it wasn’t coming from his mouth. It was so incredibly loud, like metal ripping itself apart in a car crash - why didn’t any of the staff come to see what was happening? Why had Hannibal been in his cell in the first place? Wasn’t everything monitored?

Confusion and panic made him hyperventilate, and then stop breathing entirely. He’d killed him in cold blood. They were coming. They had to be. Everything they said about him was true.

Randall. Randall Tier had said he didn’t have to enjoy it, but he had...Randall, who had talked to him from beyond death about both of them, becoming…

But Randall wasn’t here. That had happened after...after…

After he was released from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

One deep lungful of breath, and he was breathing again, barely, but completely awake. Will realized his respiration was erratic because he’d been masturbating, apparently quite roughly, because it _hurt_. And there was cum all over his still-tight fist. And his sweat-soaked sheets. The familiarity of his surroundings clashed with the horror, and the rapture, of his becoming.

Regaining some portion of his senses, he let go of himself.

He could lie to himself and try to seek some comfort in the fact that it was just a dream. But it wasn’t, not entirely. There had been visions within, dreams within the dream.

He remembered, now, that Hannibal had asked him if he’d fantasized about killing him when he did kill Randall, with his hands. He hadn’t answered. He didn’t need to answer; the truth was obvious, to Hannibal anyway. But his mind had so conveniently just filled in all the blanks, including the ones he didn’t even know were there.

In the vision, or whatever it was, he had felt a sense of victory, of power. Fucking Hannibal to death wasn’t the sort of conquest he consciously let himself imagine. But yet...there it had been, lurking in the darkest depths, waiting for the right time to burst forth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oddly enough, we came up with this story well before the discussion between Will and Hannibal about "using his hands" or Will fantasizing about killing him.


End file.
